


Hearths and Burned Houses

by book_babe



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Horror, Humor, Minor Character Death, Mystery, Slow Build, Slow Burn, check Author’s Note at beginning for spoiler tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-09-06 11:08:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16831420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/book_babe/pseuds/book_babe
Summary: Harry Potter really just wants to get through his first year at the Auror Academy with all of his limbs intact, but when a new threat rises he finds himself making allies in unlikely places.





	1. New Leaves and Old Arguments

**Author's Note:**

> There are spoiler tags at the beginning of this chapter. They apply to the end of this story. Hover over the conveniently named SPOILER TAGS in order to read them, and consider this your warning. 
> 
> This is a horror story. It is frightening. 
> 
> Thanks to Critter for reading the first chunk and encouraging me to finish this.

SPOILER TAGS

The thing about lives, Harry mused, is that they aren’t like stories. Stories end. Lives continue after “the end”. He stared at the crocheted _thing_ hanging on Mrs. Weasley’s kitchen wall and was vaguely aware that Hermione was talking. What was that, a duck?

“Harry Potter, I swear to Merlin if you don’t start listening, I’m charming your Firebolt to play the sodding national anthem every time you fart.” Hermione snapped, and Harry looked at her guiltily.

She looked exhausted. Her normally bushy hair had taken on a life of its own, and was curling wildly out of the bun she’d thrown it into earlier that morning. He checked the clock. It was nearing two in the afternoon. The scrubbed kitchen table was strewn with pamphlets emblazoned with different Ministry departments, and a few with the Wizarding Exchange University emblem: a wand and a quill, crossed over the seal of a prominent British muggle university.

It had been almost a year since the battle at Hogwarts. It had been a year of healing, of sitting in waiting rooms and by bedsides at St. Mungo’s. It had been a year for justice, where Harry himself had been asked to testify at the trials of many prominent Death Eaters. And it had been a year to mourn. Those who had fallen on the battlefield and those who had passed more quietly afterwords from their injuries had been buried, and those that remained had grieved.

And still it wasn’t over. Harry felt as exhausted as Hermione looked.

“You need to figure out what to do next.” Hermione said, more gently this time. “I know you, Harry. You won’t be able to sit around and let Molly feed you forever.”

Part of Harry wanted to disagree. It had been wonderful, coming back to the Burrow on weekends and having Mrs. Weasley not-so-subtly pile potatoes and roast on his plate. Some evenings he would even return to Number Twelve to a charmed parcel waiting by the Floo. Ron and Hermione had decided to stay with him. Hermione’s parents had remained in Australia. And Ron wouldn’t say, but he’d wanted to be closer to St. Mungos and his brothers’ shop while Fred recovered.

Ron emerged from the living room, carrying a box of Weasley products. “I dunno, Mione, it seems to be good for mum. Maybe you should just join the Aurors, mate. You’re bound to get in!”

“Yeah, because rushing off after Dark Wizards is going to be _healthy_ .” Harry muttered, and dropped his head onto the tabletop with a resounding _thunk_. Hermione made a noise of consideration, and Harry squinted up to see that she was holding a pamphlet for the Auror’s Academy.

“Actually, Harry,” she said slowly, “that’s not a bad idea. I mean,” she continued, when Harry and Ron gaped at her, “the Academy seems very… structured. You wouldn’t be able to go rushing off after Dark Wizards. You’d have a partner, someone to watch you back. And it’s not like you’ve gotten the saving people thing out of your system.”

“I haven’t got a ‘saving people thing’.” Harry said, mulishly.

Ron turned and gaped at Harry instead.

“Mate, did you or did you not get a kid out of a tree last week?” he demanded.

Harry grunted. He had. But she’d accidentally levitated herself up there after her kite and gotten scared, and it wasn’t like…

He sighed. “Any idea where your mum keeps the parchment, Ron?”

~*~

It turned out that applying for the Auror’s Academy as Harry Potter was both easier and more complicated than Harry had expected. After submitting a formal letter to the Head of the Department, a Mr. Randolf Huntsworth, Harry had received a letter informing him that they would be glad to welcome him into the new class the next fall. However, as he had failed to take his NEWT exams, he would be expected to undergo intensive tutoring in a number of Auror-related subjects.

Hermione, who had already applied for and been accepted to the Wizarding Exchange programs at both Oxford and Cambridge, was thrilled at the news.

“We can be study partners, Harry! Imagine how nice it’s going to be to focus on homework and not the end of the world.” she enthused. Harry had a sneaking suspicion that his future contained more colored timetables than he’d prefer.

“You’re sure you don’t want to apply too? Suffer with me?” Harry joked to Ron during a regular pub night. Hermione, already a cider and a half in, was arguing elf rights with an overwhelmed looking man by the dartboard.

“Yeah, I’m sure. It’s been fun, working with the twins.” He drained his pint and leaned back, looking content. “Besides, Fred’s still getting used to the new leg, he fell off of a ladder again last week.”  
  
Harry winced. Fred’s leg had been damaged by the curse that they had thought had killed him. It was only some very quick thinking on Hermione’s part and a Healer willing to listen to what sounded like the ravings of a distraught friend that had saved him.

“He isn’t trying to make his own yet, is he? I know the replacement isn’t quite his style.”

“What, because it doesn’t shoot off fireworks? I think I overheard him talking about improvements.” Ron looked thoughtful. “Mind you, between that and George’s ear, the joke business might take a backseat to building some more useful prosthetics. Moody’s eye is about as advanced as it’s gotten, Fred says.”

Harry grinned. “And if it just happens to have the ability to make rude noises when you walk?”

Ron grinned back. “Kind of pedestrian for him, but really that’s just icing on the cake, isn’t it?”

Suddenly, a very familiar voice rose over the general din of the pub.  
  
“—AND YOU, SIR, HAVE THE COMPASSION OF A TOERAG.”

Ron sighed. “Let’s go get Hermione.”

~*~

Auror Academy was in a word, intense. Harry knew walking in that he had eighteen months of grueling classes and lectures to look forward to, followed by eighteen weeks of intense physical and magical training. Students had the option to live in the severe dormitories on the small campus, but Number Twelve was close enough to the London Portkey entrance that Harry elected to commute.

It meant waking up every day at five, wolfing down a boiled egg and some toast, and Apparating to the Apparition Point by five thirty in order to make the five forty-five Portkey. Many of his classes were at least interesting. When presented through the lens of one day potentially saving a life, even History of Magic was fascinating.

“Yes, there is more to Wizarding History than a pair of Dark wizards and a lot of Goblin Rebellions.” Auror Singh said dryly on their first day of class. “And you will be expected to know it. Understanding the history of a conflict is going to aid you in de-escalating that conflict. Your role as an Auror is not to go in, wands blazing, and take down the conveniently attired Dark wizard. Though not everyone here has the same level of experience in that, ey Potter?”

Heads had turned to look at him, and Harry had felt his ears going red. But Auror Singh, an older Indian woman with a pleasantly lined face, was smiling warmly at him, and he felt himself smiling back.

“Now then,” she continued, business like, “Who can tell me the main catalyst for the rash of house burnings in 1872?”

~*~

Harry was in Potions Class, staring at the board. It seemed deceptively simple, and yet his cauldron did not contain the venom antidote that Auror Blackwell had assigned, but a mass of grey sludge. He turned to stare into the cauldron, and began trying to remember what he had done differently.

Auror Blackwell prowled the aisles in much the same way Professor Snape had, but the similarities ended there. He was a tall man, powerfully built, with skin like teak and a wicked sense of humor. He stopped in front of Harry’s cauldron and peered in.

“That, Potter, isn’t what you meant to brew.” It was a statement, not a question. Harry shook his head.

“No sir, it is not.”

Auror Blackwell considered him carefully. “The directions on the board are not complete. Did you realize this?”

Harry blanched. He had not.

Auror Blackwell nodded, thoughtful. “I understand much of your Potions education was under Professor Snape, and that your final year at Hogwarts was spent on the War effort?”

Harry nodded. “Yes, sir.” His mind was racing. Would he be thrown out? He’d tried his best, it was true, but if he didn’t know enough to be here then-

“I’m getting you a tutor.”

Harry’s brain screeched to a halt. Tutor?

“Another Auror, sir?” Harry asked politely, and Auror Blackwell snorted.

“We don’t have the teachers to spare, the Academy is stretched as it is. No, you’ll be paired with someone from the Rehabilitation program. There’s a young man, about your age. Gifted in potions. I’ll have to ask you, Potter, to give it a chance. You need to pass this, and I know that you have the ability to with help. Huntsworth had said this might be the case, but I wanted to get a feel for your abilities.”

Harry was already nodding as Blackwell continued, “His name is Draco Malfoy. Normally we’d avoid conflict so soon after the war, but he’s been a model prisoner-”  
  
_“Malfoy?!”_ The exclamation was past Harry’s lips before he could stop it. Blackwell was struggling not to look amused.

“Oh, you know him. Good, that will save us introductions. Your first tutoring session will be tomorrow, be prepared to brew this again.”

“But-”

“No buts, Potter.” And with that, Auror Blackwell strode down the aisle to the next workbench. Harry slumped in his seat, staring at the mess in his cauldron. He’d finally found something he felt like he ought to be doing, and sodding Malfoy was the only person that could help him through it.

Hermione was going to laugh herself silly.

~*~

Ron and Hermione’s reactions to Harry’s news that night were predictable. Ron’s ears went red and he stomped around, ranting about ferrets and cauldrons and ferrets in cauldrons and ferrets _as_ cauldrons and-

“Really, Ron, you shouldn’t be so shocked. You were at the hearing.” Hermione said, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes. “And Harry, it’s not the end of the world, it really isn’t.”

“Might be the end of his world.” Harry growled. He poked the sausages in the pan with a little more force than was strictly necessary, and one squeaked. He sighed. “Ron, did you get these from your brothers?”

Ron shrugged. “They were free. They don’t do anything much.”  
  
“I’m not even going to bother reminding you how much is in my vault and that you have a key.” Harry retorted, poking the sausages again. They each squeaked in a different pitch. He played a little tune, while Hermione came up behind him and looked over his shoulder.

“That is rather clever, isn’t it?” she said, and Harry looked at her.

“I think it was just ‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat.” he said, confused.

“Not the song, the sausage. It’d cheer kids up, don’t you think? Mind you, if they turn any bit of me a different color I’m going to have words with Fred. That danish he gave me last week took days to wear off. Hair isn’t supposed to be pink.”

Ron looked at her, confused. “Your hair didn’t look any different last week.”

Hermione blushed. “Not that you could see, no.”

Ron and Harry’s eyes met, and they quickly looked away.

“Eggs?” Harry squeaked. Hermione laughed and passed him the carton.

“Seriously, Harry, what are you going to do about Malfoy? They’re not going to give you another tutor, the program is stretched pretty thin.”

Harry took the eggs and removed one, breaking it neatly into another pan. “I’m not sure,” he said, Vanishing the shell and repeating the action twice more, “Auror Blackwell’s a decent sort, and I can’t imagine Malfoy being able to hoodwink the entire staff. And I need this to pass, and to learn for the field it’s just-”  
  
“Your life is some kind of cosmic joke where you can’t get a break?” Ron chimed in sardonically. Harry pointed at him with the spatula.

“That’s the one.”

“Did you seen the paper? Maybe you can join one of those support groups.”

~*~

The next day, Harry arrived at the Potions lab Auror Blackwell had indicated ten minutes before the scheduled meeting time. He wasn’t sure what to expect. Malfoy had been in Azkaban for six months, the full extent of his sentence, until a month and a half ago. Harry’s own testimony had been instrumental in keeping the sentence short, but Harry didn’t expect Malfoy to be _grateful_ for telling a room full of people that he’d once found him crying in a bathroom.

This was going to be awkward.

At eleven o’clock, precisely, the door opened and Malfoy walked in. He looked thin, gaunt, but his jaw was set. He wore a set of pale gray robes, and Harry could see the shine of a silver band around one wrist. The digits 8 0 0 glowed dimly in its surface.

Harry stood and offered a hand. “Malfoy.”

Malfoy froze for a second, looking at the proffered hand, and then took it and shook it. “Potter. Let’s get to business, shall we?”

Harry nodded, and indicated the potion textbook on the table. “It’s a general antivenom. It keeps-”

“Going grey and sludgy?” Malfoy interrupted.

Harry glared at him “Yes.”

Malfoy sighed. “Potter, I don’t want to be here with you either. But I have eight hundred hours of community service to complete, and sitting in a cool-charmed room with you is still slightly preferable to cleaning bedpans at St. Mungo's so if you _don’t mind_ , I’ll get on with it, shall I?”

Harry, taken aback, nodded.

Malfoy took a quill and some parchment from a stack on the table. He loaded the quill with ink, methodically, and drew a circle. From it he drew a line, then another circle, and another line.

“Those look like molecules.” Harry said, surprised. Malfoy looked at him.

“They are, in a way. How do you think antivenom works?”

Harry shrugged, he hadn’t considered it. “Doesn’t it just… stop it?” At Malfoy’s raised eyebrow, Harry threw his hands up. “I don’t know!”

“Think, Potter.”

Harry thought. “Well,” he started slowly, “it must neutralize it somehow. And in order to do that it must, what, stick to it?”

Malfoy nodded. “Close. It binds to it. Where the potion differs from muggle antivenom is that this is effective against the venom of magical creatures, and doesn’t have to be tailored to the exact species it works against. However, the molecular structure is incredibly fragile. They teach this one on purpose, you know.”

Harry looked at him, confused.

“It can be bought at any apothecary, and is inexpensive. But you can’t _mess with it_ , and you need to add ingredients precisely. Tell me, what were you doing while reading the directions for the next step?”

Harry considered this. “I was stirring,” he said, realization dawning, “Absentmindedly.”

Malfoy nodded. Harry was surprised at how little he wanted to punch the smug look off of Malfoy’s face.

“Do it again,” Malfoy instructed, “And this time, pay attention.”

Nevermind. Harry wanted to hit him again.

~*~

In the weeks that followed, Harry fell into a routine. Wake up, go to class, Potions practice with Malfoy, go home. Pub on Thursdays and alternate Tuesdays. It was a lot of work, and he was often asleep before his head hit the pillow, but it felt… good.

His favorite class became Stealth and Tracking, to his own surprise, even after Auror Dolage confiscated his Invisibility Cloak.

“Remarkable,” the older wizard had said, turning the shimmering fabric in his hands, “but ultimately unhelpful. You’ll be out of luck without this. Keep it out of class, I want to see what Potter can do, not what Potter’s Cloak can do. You can have this back at the end of this session.”

Even the Potions tutoring was going well, to Harry’s amazement. His inability to get into hexing matches with Malfoy likely had something to do with that.

“I still have your wand,” he confessed to Malfoy while waiting for an antidote to render. At Malfoy’s raised eyebrows he shrugged. “The Ministry thought it had been destroyed in the Fiendfyre.”

“The wand I was using was. You realize I cannot possess a wand until my parole is over?” Malfoy said smoothly, not looking at Harry. Harry’s gaze slipped to Malfoy’s wrist. The dimly glowing digits now read 7 6 0. As he watched, they changed to 7 5 9.

“Is that how many hours you have left?” Harry asked, aghast. Malfoy looked at him.

“It’s not a fashion accessory, Potter. Any wand in my hand will cause the bracelet to become shackles.”  
  
Harry felt sick. This was Malfoy, yes, and at least he wasn’t in jail. But-

Hang on.

“What’s that?” Harry asked, grabbing Malfoy’s other hand without thinking. A burn covered it. Malfoy snatched his hand away.

“Some mail from a fan,” he snapped, “Don’t yours send caustic ingredients?”

“No, they don’t, just lots of weird perfume on letters. Malfoy, did you report this?” Harry demanded, trying to grab Malfoy’s hand again.  
  
“No, I did not, and lay _off_ , Potter. Your antidote is going to explode if you don’t add the sea slug.”

Harry yelped and ran over to the cauldron, which was still bubbling merrily. When he looked up to glare at Malfoy, he was gone.

~*~

“I’m telling you Hermione, it was weird. I can see why Malfoy would be harassed, but he’s always run to someone about it.”

Hermione looked up from an essay she was writing. “Is it really so surprising? He’s lost the authority figures he used to go run _to_ , Harry.”

“Yeah, there’s no one to snivel at, Snape’s dead. Ow!” Ron added.

Hermione delicately tucked the foot she had kicked him with back underneath of herself. “Professor Snape. You realize that being suspicious of Malfoy is a terrible habit, Harry?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I’m not suspicious, I’m just, I don’t know. Concerned. He’s been decent.”

It was Ron’s turn to roll his eyes. “Yeah, Malfoy’s been ‘decent’ with an Auror trainee in a building full of Aurors. Give him the key to the city. Toss the paper this way, would you?”

Harry handed him the _Daily Prophet_. “You don’t think it’s weird?”

“Nah. I wouldn’t mind a swipe at him now that he can’t hit back.” Ron disappeared behind the paper.

Hermione looked up from her essay again, thoughtful. “Although… there has been some research about rehabilitation and removing negative influences,” she offered, “Maybe he really is turning over a new leaf.”  
  
Harry shrugged. “Maybe. Still a git through.”

“That’s just how you know it’s Malfoy,” Ron scoffed from behind the paper. “Hey, that one support group has a name now! Children of the Phoenix.”

Hermione frowned. “Are they affiliated with the Order? I don’t remember hearing about anyone in the Order starting a support group.”

“Nah, looks like some former Hufflepuff up near Hogsmeade. People really like him!” Ron replied, and then, “Oh, hell, Cannons lost.”

Harry laughed. “Give it up, Ron. That’s never going to change.”

Ron threw a cushion at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Critter for reading the first chunk and encouraging me to finish this.
> 
> This will be updated weekly, barring unforeseen issues.


	2. Ashes

Luna threw a Halloween party. 

Harry had been unsure about going; historically, he didn’t have the greatest luck on Halloween. But Ron had insisted, citing that they needed to get Hermione “out of the bloody house”. Hermione had become increasingly agitated as finals for her first semester at University loomed closer, and Ron’s attempts to cheer her up had gone unremarked. 

“I know we agreed that seeing each other was a bad idea,” he complained to Harry as the sat on Luna’s eye searlingly turquoise couch. Harry was sporting a massive bruise from dodging a jet of fire during combat practice and kept wincing. And his Batman costume was constricting. “But I’m funny! You think I’m funny.”

“I don’t know if burping her name counts as funny, Ron.” Harry replied, “Why not bring in one of the professionals?” 

“Oh, sure, get my big brother to cheer up a girl because I can’t. Cheers.” Ron groused and downed his pint. Harry sighed. 

“Seriously. She doesn’t get to see anyone but us and her classmates. She’s started saying that Zabini has interesting ideas!” 

Ron spluttered on his beer and set the pint glass down. “Please tell me that’s an Italian philosopher and not the Slytherin we had in our year?”

“That’s the one.”

“Shit.” Ron sighed, “I’ll call Fred. He’s been kind of glum himself. You know George proposed to Angelina?”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Don’t tell me she said yes.”

“She did.”

“Barmy.”

“Yeah.” Ron paused, and Harry noticed the tips of his ears were red under his laurel wreath. He adjusted his toga. “I, uh. I was thinking about Luna. You know. Radishes?”

“Yes, Ron, I know Luna. What about her?” Harry focused on his beer. Wizarding ale had a bit of a sheen to it, and Harry didn’t know if it was all of the antidote training but it made him a little uneasy. He hoped he wasn’t heading into hip flask territory. He shook himself when he realized Ron had been talking. 

“-and I mean, you know, she’s rather fit in a kind of, you know. Weird sort of way. But she comes by the shop and really liked those toys I came up with. I mean I think she’d wear them as earrings or something but-”

“Ron,” Harry interrupted, holding up a hand. “Just ask her out already? Hermione probably thinks you’re trying to woo her again anyway, and that is, no offense, a terrible idea.” 

“It really is.” Ron agreed, and wandered off in the direction of their host, centurion cape flowing behind him. 

~*~

“Huh,” Ron said while reading the Daily Prophet over breakfast a week and a half later. Harry had morning classes off and was indulging them in a fry-up. “The Parkinsons’ house was vandalized last night. Windows were broken and someone wrote ‘ashes’ on the front door in red paint. Weird.” 

“Definitely weird. Anyone hurt?” Harry asked over a pan of bacon.

“Nah, family was out of town. Near thing though, they came back early this morning.” 

“Blaise said Pansy’s been getting weird letters in the mail, I hope it’s not related.” Hermione said, rummaging through the tea bags. “Oh, shoot. Harry, we’re out of the blend you like.” 

“Give me the Lady, I’ll manage. Might have been a Halloween prank, but it could be something. Maybe someone at the Academy will know more.” Harry plated breakfast and passed it around. “Did he say if her hands were burned or anything?” 

Hermione shook her head. “No, he just mentioned it in an offhand way. Her dad’s in Azkaban, a lot of the families of former Death Eaters have been getting letters like that.”

“Dad says it’s part of the end of a war,” Ron added, cutting up his egg, “People need someone to blame and they can’t get at the bastards in jail.” 

“People grieve in odd ways,” Hermione agreed, “Speaking of which, Harry, Hannah Abbott is in my Arithmancy class, she said to say hello and wanted to know if you’d come by her support group. I think she’s looking for an appearance by the Chosen One to cheer people up a bit.”

Harry groaned. “I miss when people just wanted to arrest me on sight. Which group is hers?” 

“That Phoenix one. She said she liked the name, it reminded her of the Order. I guess she needed extra help when she and Neville broke up.” 

“I didn’t know they were together.” Harry thought for a second, “Has anyone heard from Neville?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Harry, I know the Auror Academy is intensive, but your friends have continued their lives outside of it. He sends letters all the time, I think I left you one stuck to the door of your room about a week ago.” 

Harry looked over at Ron, who nodded. “It’s mostly about looking forward to chaperoning a Halloween party and what’s going on in the Greenhouses. He’s apprenticing for Professor Sprout. Did you know she’s over a hundred? Whatever’s in the dirt must be amazing.”

Harry smiled weakly at Hermione. “I’m sorry Mione, you know I get wrapped up in things.” 

She smiled back at him, and leaned forward to ruffle his hair affectionately. “Harry Potter, the world is not in peril at the moment. Save some time for your friends.” 

~*~ 

Despite what he had said to Hermione, Harry couldn’t get what had happened to the Parkinsons’ house out of his head. Auror Singh noticed his distraction, and made a point to call on him more than once. 

“Ten laps around the training pitch after class, Potter. Get your head on straight.” she told him severely. Harry knew better than to protest. 

His punishment meant he had to run, already out of breath and sweating, to be on time to meet Malfoy for Potions practice. Malfoy’s face was a picture of bewilderment and disgust when Harry finally skidded through the door and collapsed onto a chair. 

“I’m not even going to ask, Potter. But you’d better take a moment to catch your breath, this potion can go disastrously wrong if one is distracted.” Malfoy said instead, and flipped through a textbook to show Harry. “Personally, I’d love to see if your ability to survive anything and come out relatively unscathed extends to caustic acids, but as I am also in the blast radius, I’d rather we didn’t.”

“Malfoy, I didn’t know you cared.” Harry shot back, and leaned forward to put his head between his knees. Auror Academy had a lot of running, why was there so much running? Wizards surely didn’t need to run this much, you’d think you could just Apparate but no, apparently encouraging suspects to splinch themselves was frowned upon. 

A vial of potion was placed at his elbow, and Harry looked up to see Malfoy studiously not looking at him. “I need you alive to tutor, drink that before you expire over my shoes. Diffy just polished them,” he said carelessly. “It’s something of my own design.”

Harry sniffed it, suspiciously. It smelled mostly… green. Like early spring. Shrugging to himself, he downed the vial and immediately felt better. “Wow. You need to give me the recipe for that.”

Malfoy looked at him, one eyebrow already raised. “Next lesson. Restorative Draughts really ought to be part of the curriculum. Are you ready to begin?”

Harry nodded. He rose to gather ingredients from the storage room off of the classroom, and within twenty minutes the room was filled with the steam of a bubbling cauldron and the smell of-

“Rat spleen. Rat spleen. Why do potions ingredients always need to be so weird?” Harry grumbled, slicing tiny organs thinly and trying not to gag. Next to him, Malfoy rolled his eyes. 

“Everything has inherent magical properties, Potter. It’s only the combinations of certain elements that produces the intended effect. You couldn’t just throw a load of offal into a cauldron and hope to produce anything useful.” 

Harry shrugged. “I think you just described haggis. Does this look right?” 

Malfoy peered over his shoulder and wordlessly took the stirring rod. His hand was in a bandage. “Passible. Try adding another crushed peppercorn, you’ve got some time to make adjustments until the sheen turns more golden.”

Harry nodded, eyes fixed on Malfoy’s hand. Malfoy followed his gaze and dropped his hand to his side. 

“Leave it alone, Potter,” he said quietly, “There’s nothing that concerns you.” 

Harry focused instead on the peppercorns, selecting one and crushing it under the flat of his knife. “You say that,” he said just as quietly, “But Hermione will tell anyone that that doesn’t mean much. Is it related to the Parkinsons’ house, do you think?”

Malfoy was silent as Harry scooped the crushed peppercorn onto the knife blade and tipped the pieces into the cauldron. Immediately, the dark liquid inside developed a golden sheen. Harry directed his wand at the flame beneath, and wordlessly lowered the flame. 

“According to my notes, we have twenty minutes for that to render. You might as well tell me.” Harry continued, still not looking at Malfoy. He heard the other man sigh. 

“It may have been. I don’t know. And this,” Malfoy’s grey eyes darted towards the door quickly, “Isn’t the place for a person in my position to speculate.” 

Harry stared at him. And thinking quickly, pulled a quill and a scrap of parchment towards him and scrawled quickly, Listening charms? 

Malfoy’s eyes shot between Harry and the parchment in surprise, and picked up his own quill. It’s not unlikely, he wrote just as quickly. 

Are you in trouble? 

Malfoy rolled his eyes. You do not give up, do you?

Harry smiled. I do not. 

Mother suspects these occurrences are less random than I would like to believe.

Harry nodded, and silently cast an incendio at the parchment. It disappeared in a flash of smokeless flame. 

“We don’t have a lot of time left on this, I think. I’ll look into it,” he said in what he hoped was a normal tone of voice. Malfoy’s lips twitched into what could have been called a smile. 

“Yes, you should consult your notes on this potion. Failing to remove it from the flame could be disastrous.” 

~*~

Before Harry had realized it, three months had passed in a blur of classes, potion vapors, and pub nights with Ron and Hermione. Ron had begun inviting Fred and George along after work, which cheered people up immensely. Hermione, who had started bringing flashcards with her, left them in her bag. 

“You’re halfway through your Potions intensive with Malfoy, Harry, lighten up!” Ron nudged him, pointing at Harry’s unfinished beer. Harry chuckled and shook his head. 

“He’s not bad. Apparently the Transfiguration tutor I’ll have next fall is a rather strict German fellow that makes McGonagall look like-”

“A kitty cat?” Fred cut in, floating over a round of shots. Harry and Hermione groaned. 

“Some of us have classes tomorrow,” she pointed out, but the stern edge to her voice had disappeared with her first cider.

“Some of us are witches that, if I recall correctly, have a hangover draught in their nightstand.” Fred responded easily. 

“Refrigerator.” she corrected out of habit, and took the firewhiskey shot nudging her hand. Harry met Ron’s eyes over her head. 

Why has Fred seen Hermione’s nightstand? He mouthed silently. Ron grimaced, and shrugged, then threw his shot back. 

Harry did the same, shivering a little when the whiskey burned his throat. 

“I could shell out for some nicer stuff, next time,” he gasped. “When was this brewed, last week?”

Fred clapped him on the shoulder. “Harry, my lad, my chum. That is besides the point. You’re young, you drink crap alcohol and snog people you oughtn’t. Speaking of which, are you still avoiding my sister?” 

Ron groaned and thunked his head onto the small table they were gathered around. Hermione patted his hand distractedly, still sputtering over her shot. Harry felt his cheeks heat. 

“Sorry Fred, Interrogate Harry Potter Day is next month, always in January, I’ll put you on the mailing list.” he said, hoping he sounded casual. 

“She’s dating Neville anyway.” Hermione offered, and Ron groaned again. 

“Good for Neville? Good for her. Good. Good!” Harry stammered. 

“Yeah, apparently the ladies like a man that can swing a sword at a snake.” Fred said, waggling his eyebrows. Ron looked up and glared at him. 

“One, that is our baby sister, who has no idea what men are-” he started.

“Pretty sure the girl with six brothers has seen a cock before, but go off.” Hermione muttered into her glass. 

“And two,” Ron said more loudly, pretending Hermione hadn’t spoken, “How the hell is Neville dating so much?”

“Sword, snake, does no one listen?” Fred lamented, leaning onto Hermione’s shoulder. She shrugged. 

“Harry defeated the basilisk with a sword! In front of Ginny! Second year! That’s a bigger snake, surely that’s more impressive?” Ron exclaimed, looking to Harry for help. 

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Oh, so now you want me dating your sister?” 

“What? No! I mean…” Ron gestured helplessly, looking around at Hermione and Fred, who wore matching beatific expressions of innocence. “I hate you all.”

“Nonsense, old boy, we’re family. Ah! Speaking of which, here comes George and the lovely Angelina.” Fred exclaimed, gesturing towards the door. George was holding the door open for Angelina, and the look that passed between the two was so tender it made Harry smile softly. 

“Weasley.” George greeted Fred. 

“Weasley.” Fred responded, nodding solemnly. 

“Weasley.” George tried to greet Ron. Ron gave him a flat look. George turned to look at Angelina instead. “Weasley?”

“Soon enough love.” She patted his hand. “How are all of you?”

“Ron’s traumatized.” Hermione said brightly. Angelina leaned forward and patted Ron’s hand as well. 

“I think it’s going around. Did you hear? There was another house fire yesterday.” she said, dropping her voice slightly. Harry, Ron, and Hermione glanced at one another. 

“Who’s?” Harry asked.

“Theo Nott. He was in your year, I think. Cheers.” Angelina said, accepting a pint from Fred. 

“Is he alright?” Hermione demanded. Angelina shrugged. 

“I don’t think anyone was hurt. It didn’t make the Prophet. They’re saying it was a dodgy chimney, you know those old ancestral piles end up falling to bits.” 

Hermione looked upset. “I wonder if Blaise knows anything. You should ask Draco, Harry.” 

Ron groaned again. “Hermione, it’s bad enough you’re calling Zabini by his first name, do you have to call Ferret-face by his too? Isn’t Malfoy enough, he’s Malfoy.” 

“I don’t see the harm in being a little kinder, Ron.” Hermione said. “I mean, Blaise is really nice! A bit of a snob, I’ll admit, but he’s not as much of a prick as I’d thought.” 

“Malfoy’s not that bad either,” Harry added before he thought about it. Five heads turned to stare at him. “Well, he’s not! He’s a snob, yeah. Kind of weird. But not evil.” 

Ron looked between his two friends, baffled. He looked at his brothers. “You’re not on the Slytherin love train too, are you?” he asked, only slightly desperately. 

Fred shrugged. “Harry’s spent a lot of time with Malfoy recently, and I’ve never known Granger to be wrong about anything ever. Ow. I’m supporting you, witch!” 

Hermione smiled beatifically again, giving no indication she had just elbowed Fred in the ribs. George sniggered, and then yelped when Angelina stood on his foot. 

“Bloody bird’s a menace,” he hissed to Fred. Angelina stood on his foot again. 

~*~

Harry had another idea. Rather than go to Malfoy, he decided to see what the Aurors knew. If they’d speak to him. He had six months before he had to shadow an Auror, but it wasn’t unheard of for Academy students to spend time in the Auror office, trying to ingratiate themselves with Aurors before the selection process. 

Harry had been trying to avoid making himself too conspicuous, and frankly, he hadn’t had time to fetch coffee at the Auror’s office. So on Friday morning, he walked in, an hour before he had to report to classes, with a box of pastries and a charmed carrier of coffee from the nice place near Number Twelve. The smell of coffee did what he’d hoped, and soon Auror Dawlish was sauntering casually over to the table Harry has commandeered for his purposes. 

“Ah, Potter, I was wondering when we’d see you around here. Oh, are those from the place in Islington?” 

Harry shrugged, going for casual. “Yeah, you know, I was in the area and up early, figured I’d pick a few things up and bring them by. See the office when I’m not on the way to a hearing.” 

Dawlish raised an eyebrow from where he was blowing on a cup of coffee. “Uh-huh. Want to see what’s being worked on, do you?” 

Harry deflated. “Yes please.” 

Dawlish grinned. “You were more or less in the Order, kid, Academy is just a formality as far as I’m concerned. You all were heros!” 

“I was actually curious about the house fires.” Harry said quickly. Dawlish considered him over his coffee, and eyed the pastries. 

“That clotted cream?” Harry nodded, and Dawlish tipped his head towards the group of cubbied desks. “Follow me.” 

Harry followed him through the maze of desks, returning nods and trying not to blush when someone called out, “Potter brought pastries, ladies line up!” Dawlish’s desk was near the back, next to one that was empty save for a potted plant. 

“Used to belong to Auror Tonks,” Dawlish said gruffly when he saw Harry looking. “We’re keeping it empty as long as we can, didn’t seem right. Now then, these houses. What do you know?”

Harry shrugged, sitting in a chair Dawlish indicated across from the older man. “Just what’s been in the paper. They’ve been classmates, and I’ve been working with Malfoy.” 

Dawlish nodded. “Right, his parole service. How is that going?” 

Harry shrugged again. “Fine? He’s a good tutor, great at potions. I guess the rehabilitation program is working.” 

“You didn’t get the feeling he was being untruthful, trying to manipulate you?” Dawlish asked, and Harry noticed the very casual tone of his voice. 

“No.” Harry said carefully. “I didn’t. I think he’s being attacked, and he isn’t being listened to.” 

“You’d be a good person to go to about that, wouldn’t you?” Dawlish pressed.

“I don’t see how I would be.” Harry said. “What is the Auror department doing about it, are they looking into it?” 

Dawlish leaned back, waving a hand. “Yeah. We’re looking. It’s mostly the homes of former Death Eaters, probably hiding more evidence.” 

Harry’s brows knitted. “Mostly? There’s only been two.” 

“Oh, yeah, you’re completely right. Mornings, huh?” Dawlish smiled. “Hey, while I’ve got you here, would you mind putting in an appearance somewhere for me? I know I don’t really have a right to ask, but, it’d be great to get some trainee Aurors there.” 

Harry looked at him cautiously. “Yeah, sure. Love to. Where?” 

“Just a little meeting. I’ll owl you the details, you’re still at the old Headquarters, right? Kingsley mentioned the place.”

“Yeah.” 

“Sounds good. You’d better run to class, Potter. Wouldn’t do to be late.” Dawlish smiled again. “It doesn’t look good.” 

~*~

The rest of the day was more routine. Harry slipped Malfoy a note asking about Nott’s house, and the blonde only shook his head before indicating Harry should burn the note. The lesson was on the Restorative Draught from the day before. 

“These should not be used to replace meals and sleep on a regular basis,” Malfoy warned while Harry prepped ingredients. “Especially while in a high stress environment. Keep them as a last resort.” 

“I think Molly Weasley would kill me, honestly.” Harry joked, before realizing who he was talking to and flinched. Malfoy’s eyes narrowed. 

“Potter,” he drawled, “You’re not trying to get me killed, are you? She’s not overly fond of my family, you know. Seemed to really dislike my aunt.” 

Harry held his breath, unsure of what to say. 

“Er,” he tried, “Uh, I…” he started, and noticed Malfoy’s eyes were crinkled in repressed mirth. 

“Oh, you WANKER.” Harry growled. Malfoy laughed, a full bodied guffaw that should have seemed more out of place on such a posh, fussy face. “Really? You were winding me up about that? You are tasteless, you are.” 

Malfoy wiped his eyes. “Oh, I had to, you looked like you’d caught yourself proposing to Filch. You’re too easy, Potter.” 

Harry returned to crushing shrivelpod beans with the flat of a knife blade, grumbling, “I’ll show you who’s easy.”

It wasn’t until after they had cleaned up and he was on his way to the Apparition Point that Harry realized he was smiling. 

~*~

The letter from Dawlish was waiting for Harry Christmas Eve morning on the leg of a tawny owl. He removed the letter, thanked the bird with a bit of toast, and cracked open the wax seal. 

Dear Mr. Potter, 

The Children of the Phoenix would like to extend an invitation to meet with us today, at 1pm, for one of our regular meetings. We can be found at Number 8, Green Willow Road, Chipping Knockdale. We hope you will join us in togetherness and resurrection. 

Yours most sincerely, 

John Dawlish

“Crikey, it looks like one of those Muggle church groups over in America. Look, you can even see where they’ve filled in your name and the date.” Ron said, reading over Harry’s shoulder. “You’re not going, are you? It’s Christmas Eve!”

Harry shrugged. “I might as well. This is the second person to ask, they seem pretty keen. You want to come?” 

Ron shrugged as well and stole a piece of Harry’s toast. “Might. It’s up near Hogsmeade, look! We could visit Neville after.” 

“Yeah. Ask Hermione if she’d be interested in going if you see her, would you? I’m running to the shop.” Harry pushed himself up from the table and strode towards the door. 

“Take the list!” Ron yelled at Harry’s departing form, which gave a sarcastic wave of acknowledgement and continued on its way. 

The shops were quiet this early on a holiday. They had Christmas lunch at the Burrow the next day, and although they had been expressly forbidden from bringing anything more than the occasional bottle of wine, Harry liked seeing what flowers or other small, slightly stupid gifts he could bring to his adopted parents, in addition to the gifts wrapped in paper. It was wonderful to have a mother to spoil. 

The December air was crisp, and cold. Harry burrowed his face further into his scarf. There were two florists nearby, one Muggle and one Wizarding. He was feeling a little whimsical this morning, and turned in the direction of the Wizarding one. 

Diagon Alley might be one of the few entirely Wizarding shopping districts in London, but there were smaller pockets of shops scattered throughout the city if you knew where to look. Flower Power was tucked into a side street off of Liverpool Road. Harry shouldered the front door open and waved at Daisy, the woman who ran it. She reminded him a bit of Luna. 

“Hey there, Harry. Looking for another gift?” Daisy called cheerfully from behind a large plant that was tinkling merrily. Harry grinned, and patted a rather cuddly Tentacula on a tendril and wandered into the shop. 

“Hey Daisy. I’m looking for something that’ll make Mrs. Weasley smile, anything come to mind?” 

She paused, a delicate pair of pruning shears in one hand. “Let’s see. I assume the others have gone over well?” 

He laughed. “She’s loved them, every single one.” 

She smiled. “Then, I think this little fellow over here would be a good bet. Relatively low maintenance, but likes a bit of sun and can survive occasionally being fussed over. “ She indicated a squat little plant with flowers that looked like they were made from red glass. “And don’t you try to over-pay for it, Harry Potter, I won’t take a knut over ten Sickles.” 

Harry held up his hands in mock surrender. “Fair enough. What’s it called? She always asks and then gives it another name anyway.” 

“The Heart Glass Flower. It flourishes in loving environments, I think her house would do well for it, don’t you?” Daisy had, once upon a time, been to a few Weasley dinners on Charlie’s arm before they had amicably called it quits. Mrs. Weasley still sent her pies. 

“I think you’re right. I’ll take that one, please. With the usual charms in place.” Harry dug into his pocket for his money bag, and then counted out ten Sickles onto the counter. And one Knut.

Daisy handed him the plant, and then noticed the money pile. “You cheeky-”

“Bye Daisy!” Harry called over his shoulder on the way out the door, laughing to himself. 

He stopped by the corner shop on his way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with this, and reading another chapter! I'm going to stick to updating weekly, drop a comment or a kudos if you're digging it.


	3. Meetings and Murmurs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Harry, mate, he’s a Hufflepuff.” Ron said “Can’t be that dangerous. What’s he going to do, care and feed people to death?”

The first thing Harry noticed about Chipping Knockdale was how very  _ clean _ it was. There was no graffiti on the sides of buildings, the window boxes were all very orderly. Even the snow had been neatly cleared. Harry, Ron, and Hermione Apparated outside of Number 8, Green Willow Road at a quarter to one. Inside there were already the sounds of voices. Harry knocked quickly on the door, and was not surprised to see it opened by a small, elderly woman. Her eyes widened when she saw him.

“Oh! Oh dear, it’s you. I must tell Alfie. Come in, come in. Oh, you brought friends, how lovely.” She ushered them into a well-sized, very neat room. Chairs, most of which looked like they had been taken from family dining sets, were arranged in neat rows, maybe forty in all. They faced one chair. Sitting in the lone chair, flipping through parchment, was a wizard who looked to be at most in his sixties. His grey hair was neatly cut and carefully combed, his robes were very neat, and Harry could see the cuff of what looked like a homemade jumper sticking out from his sleeve. 

The elderly witch hurried over to him, and bent to whisper in his ear. The wizard paused to listen, and nodded. He then looked over at Harry, Ron, and Hermione, who were still grouped by the door. He rose and walked over to greet them. 

“Friends,” he said warmly, shaking their hands in turn, “I welcome you. Do come in, make yourselves comfortable. I am Alfred Staniforth. But you, my friends, you must call me Alfie.” 

“Alfie,” Harry said, “It’s nice to meet you. Harry Potter, and my friends Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger.” 

Alfie laughed. “I know who you are, Master Potter, and your friends. You stopped He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named! Such a service, such a service. Please, join us. Our little meeting will begin shortly.” 

He indicated the front row of chairs, where three spaces were open next to Hannah Abbott. She waved. Ernie Macmillan gave a friendly nod from a few rows back. Harry, Ron, and Hermione took their seats. Alfie walked around the cluster of chairs, talking to people in turns. Finally, he stood beaming at the gathered assembly. 

“Now, we all know why we’re here. It is Christmas tomorrow, after all, a time for family! But we have new faces, and it wouldn’t do to leave them out!” he said brightly, sitting down in his own chair. Harry noticed it had been placed upon a slightly elevated platform. 

“This is a group for those touched deeply by the loss inflicted upon them by the war with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Those here have lost sons, daughters, parents, siblings. Some may say we cling too tightly. But can a person cling tightly enough to something that is so dear to one as family?” 

A chorus of “nos” rose from the assembled listeners. Alfie continued to beam at them, his expression radiant. 

“No we cannot! Quite right, quite right. It is folly, I say, to carelessly throw away what might have been. To forgive what has been taken. How can we move on when the path has been swept away?” Alfie stood, and stepped down from the slightly raised platform and began to pace back and forth, his hands clasped behind his back. 

Harry snuck a look over at Ron and Hermione. Ron was wearing the quizzical expression Harry recognized from classes he didn’t understand but Hermione’s eyes were narrowed. 

“Many of you know about my little Rosie, the light of her mother’s and my lives. Brilliant girl, sharp as a tack. She’d always get back up when something knocked her down, she was so determined. And loyal. Loyal to a fault, I thought for sure she’d follow the rest of the family into Hufflepuff. Ended up in Ravenclaw instead, and her mother and I were right chuffed, but well. She had her own mind, she did.” 

He stopped, and stared at his hands, flexing them. “Loyal to a fault. She was in sixth year.” 

Harry’s blood stopped cold. Rosie Staniforth, Ravenclaw sixth year. Images of a little brown haired girl sitting with Luna and Ginny came to mind, of warm brown eyes focused on a practice target during DA practice, of brown hair spread out over the cobbles…

When Harry looked at Archie, the man was looking right at him. “I wondered if you’d remember her, Master Potter. A good general knows his troops, doesn’t he.” 

There was no accusation in the man’s voice. It was soft, and measured. 

“A friend of hers had been captured earlier in the year. Other friends of hers fought the resistance, got in trouble. Now, I’d told my little girl to keep her head down but children will have their own mind. Won’t they, Miss Abbott?” 

Harry glanced over at Hannah, who was crying silently. She nodded. 

“There, there, dear. You couldn’t have known.” Alfie soothed, continuing to pace as his tale unfolded. “So there it was. The final day. One last stand. Maribeth and I at home, our little girl safe in school. Or so we thought. We didn’t know until the next day. A letter from Professor McGonagall. Very sympathetic. She’d been told to stay in her dorm, you see.

“But we could never get Rosie to stay put when there was injustice afoot. She’d be up in her room for days for days, reading, writing, and one day she would come down with a twelve step plan and bulleted instructions.” 

Alfie paused again, and shook his head. “Listen to me, an old man, talking about his problems. Well, Maribeth and I went down the next day. Saw the school, in shambles. Spell damage everywhere. She’d been taken to the Great Hall. All of the, the deceased, were. My little English Rose. Cold on the cobbles. Most of the Death Eaters had been taken away, to the Ministry. But there was Narcissa Malfoy, bold as you like. Sitting with the Aurors and talking.  _ Talking _ . So I marched up to them, though Maribeth grabbed my sleeve and begged me to stop and asked who’d done it. And the Auror, I don’t know his name, big chap, told me it’d been that Lestrange woman. And that your mum, Mr. Weasley, had taken care of her.” 

Harry glanced over at Ron. Sure enough, his ears were bright red. 

“Maribeth died a week later. Heart attack, the Healer said, but I think it was broken. Terrible shame. Terrible shame. So I was sitting in my study, just, just thinking. Reading some of her old books, you know. And while there’s no way to get her back, not yet… I realized that I didn’t have to let her go. I didn’t have to let Maribeth go. And I met people, people like you all, for whom the fancy speeches and the moments of silence weren’t enough.” 

Alfie smiled, and Harry wanted to be comforted by it. He knew what he felt, he still missed Sirius every day. He remembered looking across the Great Hall, and seeing how… small… some of the bodies had been. How brave. 

_ How foolish _ . A voice whispered in his head. 

“How wonderful it is that we’ve found each other. Together, my friends. Together we can rise from these ashes.” Alfie spread his arms, and as one, everyone in the room aside from Harry, Ron, and Hermione spoke. 

“Rise from the ashes!”

~*~

After Archie returned to his seat, other members of the large group had a chance to speak. Some came forward and stood next to Archie, some simply stood where they were. 

“I’ve sold my house,” one woman confided, looking around as if daring someone to disagree with her decision. “I don’t need it. I’ve everything I need to remember my husband by here.”   
  
“Letting go of your material goods, how noble Jessica.” Archie said from his chair. “I do hope you kept a few momentos?”

“A few,” Jessica admitted, pinking. “Some of his jumpers.”

“We shall not be untethered.” Alfie murmured, and again as one, the gathered members spoke.

“We shall not be untethered.” 

“My friend, I cannot take your pain. Would that I could, I would lay it upon my own shoulders. But your pain is my pain, we are the same. Shared pain is no pain at all.” Alfie said, louder this time, and again the congregation repeated his final sentence. Harry did not risk looking at Ron and Hermione, but saw tears slide down Hannah’s cheeks. There was an odd crackle to the air, as if all the emotion had produced a charge.

“Now, normally I would wish more to speak but it doesn’t do to overwhelm Master Potter and his friends so early, does it? It is a holiday after, all and they have family to return to!” Alfie said with joviality, standing and walking forward to clap a hand on Harry’s shoulder. Harry looked up into brilliant brown eyes, and could have sworn he felt something in his mind, like a ghost. 

Alfie patted his shoulder again, and straightened, beaming at his group once again. “Until tomorrow, friends.” 

As one, as if a spell had been broken, people stood. But rather than the disjointed chatter that would accompany, say, class being dismissed, people were silent. The chairs stayed where they were. 

Hannah gestured for Harry, Ron, and Hermione to follow them. As they turned to go, Harry felt a hand on his elbow. Archie stood there, and for the first time Harry felt  _ power _ radiating off of him. 

“You will return, I hope.” 

It wasn’t a question, and quite against his own will, Harry found himself nodding. Brown eyes crinkled again. 

“Until then, Master Potter.”

Numb, Harry followed Hannah out of the door and into the square. Snow whirled around them, making the little village look somewhat barren. There were no decorations. 

“He doesn’t normally end the meetings so suddenly,” she said quietly. “We can go to my room, if you like. I’m in a cottage nearby.”    
  
“I thought you lived closer to Wales?” Hermione asked as they trooped out the door. Hannah laughed. 

“Oh, my parents still do, they didn’t follow me here. I asked them to, told them Will, you know, my brother, would want us together. Family should be together. But this is my family now, I guess.” Hannah indicated the collection of cottages and small shops with a wave of her hand. “It’s not much, I know.”

Harry realized that no one was Apparating. “Hannah,” he said slowly, “Does everyone that was at that meeting live here?”    
  
“Almost!” she said cheerfully. “Dawlish still lives in London, and there’s a couple that are I think closer to Kent. But it’s so much easier here. And everyone understands.”

She led them to a fountain in the center of the small square. “Look, Alfie made it. If you touch the water, it’ll show you someone you’ve lost. So you can remember them.” 

Hermione looked concerned. “Hannah,” she asked casually, “Have you heard from Neville at all?”   
  
Hannah shrugged. “He didn’t want to come.” 

“But have you gotten his letters? When you stopped coming to classes we got concerned.” Hermione pressed. Hannah shook her head. 

“He didn’t want to come, and I don’t need to be anywhere but here.” she repeated. She started walking again, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione had to hurry to keep up. She led them to a small cottage that looked exactly like the other small cottages surrounding it. 

Inside was almost bare. The kitchen looked unused. Hannah led them to her room, and sat on the bed. It and a small dresser were the only pieces of furniture in the room. Hermione looked at Ron and Harry and shrugged, then Conjured three chairs. 

“Still moving in, huh?” Ron asked. His voice had that cheerful quality it took on when he was trying not to upset his mother. Or Ginny. Or Hermione. Hannah looked at him blankly. 

“Oh! My belongings! I didn’t take much. Some clothes, some books Will and I shared. We shall not be untethered, after-” she stopped herself and shook her head. “Well, it’s a bit strange. But we Conjure more or less everything. Then let it go. Back into nothing.” 

“I was surprised to learn wizards bought furniture at all,” Hermione commented, “Before I learned how taxing Conjuring can be. Isn’t it exhausting?”   
  
Hannah shrugged. “I suppose. I don’t mind. You’ll come back, right? Aren’t the meetings wonderful?”   
  
She directed this last question at Harry, who was taken off guard by the sudden attention. 

“Er. They’re very… interesting. Very moving.” he finished, lamely. Hannah was already nodding. 

“Yes. They really are. Normally other people speak more, it’s like they really get it, you know? You should come back.” 

“We’ll think about it. Harry, didn’t we have that thing?” Hermione asked. Harry and Ron looked at her, confused. “With our other friend?” Hermione pressed. 

“Oh! Yeah, we better get cracking on. Yep.” Ron stood and stretched theatrically. “We’ll see you around, Hannah, maybe at the Leaky for pub night?”   
  
“Oh,” Hannah laughed, “We don’t drink. It corrupts magical influence. I’ll see you when you come back.” 

“Yes, of course.” Hermione Vanished the chairs, and led the way out of the room. Harry didn’t feel at ease until they Apparated away. 

~*~

They had agreed to meet Neville at the Three Broomsticks at roughly five for an early supper. They got there before he did, and were already drinking steaming Butterbeers when he walked in, stamping off snow. 

“Hi Harry! Hi Hermione! Hi Ron! Happy Christmas! It’s a mess out, isn’t it?” Neville greeted them, waving over their heads at Madame Rosmerta. “Just the one, please. Did you all order yet? I’m famished.”    
  
“No, we thought we’d wait for you.” Harry said, and on cue Ron’s stomach gurgled loudly. 

“And menus please!” Neville called, to laughter. Harry focused on Neville. 

He looked good. Working in the greenhouses agreed with him, and at some point he’d become, well,  _ confident _ . The round faced little boy that couldn’t find his toad was gone. Madam Rosmerta returned with Neville’s Butterbeer, and he thanked her with an easy grin. 

“So what brings you up here? Hermione’s letter didn’t say.” Neville asked. Harry shrugged. 

“Hannah and Dawlish asked us to come to their support group. Seemed a bit odd.” he said, bluntly. “Bit like those Muggle churches you see in America. And dreary.” 

Neville nodded. “Yeah. It was odd. She was going to apprentice here, you know. At the Three Broomsticks.”    
  
Hermione looked surprised. “Really?” 

Neville shrugged. “Yeah. I went to a few meetings myself after we broke up, you know, to support her and to try to see if it’d help with everything, but I suppose everyone mourns differently.” 

“Yeah, Fred and George are making commemorative candy for Order Members. The one for Tonks turns your body hair pink, right Mi-” Ron started, and Hermione cut him off with a glare. 

“She would have loved that.” Neville laughed.

“What seemed odd to me,” Hermione said slowly, “Was that, well, most support groups have more of an eventual focus on, you know. Letting go. Moving on.” 

Harry nodded. “That was odd.”

Ron shrugged. “Maybe they’re not ready to?”   
  
“Maybe,” Hermione admitted. “But, I don’t know. That fountain? Hannah’s room?” 

“The chanting?” Harry added. Neville’s brow furrowed.

“Chanting?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah. Happened a few times. ‘Shared pain is no pain at all’, ‘we shall not be untethered’, and... what was the other one?”

“‘From the ashes’.” Hermione replied. Neville shrugged. 

“That’s new. Or newer than a couple of months ago. Really like that Phoenix imagery, don’t they? Mind you, I wouldn’t mind seeing Fawkes again...” 

The rest of the evening was filled with pleasant conversation and large, hearty bowls of stew. Firewhiskey replaced the Butterbeer eventually, and when Harry finally collapsed into bed after Flooing home, it was with a smile on his face. 

~*~

The next morning he was woken by Crookshanks happily stomping on his bladder and what felt like a small troll banging around in his skull. He fumbled through his bedside drawer for a Hangover potion, cursed when he remembered it was in the refrigerator, and threw back the covers. He lurched out of bed, stumbled down the stairs, and into the kitchen, praying for a Hangover Cure or death, whichever came more quietly. 

Hermione stumbled in not long after him, her face ashen and her hair resembling some sort of exotic shrub. “Ron’s being sick upstairs. I think I heard pleading. Am I a good enough friend to bring him some?” she asked, accepting her measure of potion and drinking it with a shudder. 

“I’ll do it.” Harry told her. “Could you start breakfast?”    
  
“We’ve lunch at the Burrow in an hour.” she responded, collapsing into a chair and laying her head down on the table. Harry winced. 

“I’ll see to Ron, Molly will kill us if we’re late.” 

~*~

An hour later they were stepping out of the fireplace at the Burrow, Ron carrying their presents, Harry carrying the small potted plant he had picked up the day before. He found Mrs. Weasley in the kitchen and kissed her cheek before offering the ceramic container. 

“Oh, Harry, it’s lovely. You really do find the most beautiful things.” she said, patting his cheek. “Arthur, look what Harry brought!” 

“Very nice.” Arthur said approvingly, walking over to peer over his wife’s shoulder at the little plant. “That would look nice in the window there, wouldn’t it dear?”

“It would.” Mrs. Weasley cleared a bit of space on the kitchen windowsill and arranged the little plant. “There. Now, food will be out shortly. We’re doing gifts later. Harry dear, would you go make sure Fred and George haven’t spiked the orange juice again?”    
  
“I’ll get Hermione on it,” he said, heading out of the kitchen. “She’s better at it.” 

In fact, Harry found Hermione already standing between Fred and the table, where a pitcher of fresh orange juice sat, Harry had to admit, rather invitingly. Fred was holding a vial well over Hermione’s head. Harry knew if she really wanted it she could just Summon it, but seemed content to try to reach and scold Fred. Ron was standing with George, watching this exchange and shaking his head. 

“Fred, mate, stop joking around already! Do it!” George called, causing Hermione to turn to look at him. When she turned back, Fred swooped down and kissed her. Harry was stunned, Ron looked resigned, and George cheered. 

“Wait, since when?” Harry asked, as Hermione, rather than hitting Fred, had thrown her arms around his neck and was kissing him back enthusiastically. Ron shook his head. 

“Harry, you’re a brick.” he said flatly. “Since a while ago. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice?”

“Oh!” Mrs. Weasley walked in from the kitchen, plates of food floating in front of her. “That’s lovely dears, break it up. Fred, you’d better do better than your brother.” 

“Oi!” Ron exclaimed, his ears going bright red, as the rest of his assembled family, Harry, and Hermione started laughing. Hermione was slightly flushed, but beaming, and Fred looked terribly pleased with himself. 

The food was, as always, incredible. A large goose, courtesy of the twins, dominated the middle of the table, surrounded by mashed potatoes, roast sprouts, home baked bread, pigs in a blanket… Harry piled a little bit of everything on his plate, until Mrs. Weasley looked satisfied. Conversation dwindled as people tucked in, reduced to the occasional lighthearted jab at Fred, Hermione, or Ron, or requests to pass dishes. 

“Ginny wrote, she said training with the Harpies is getting brutal.” George said. “The trainer has them on a nutrition plan, can you believe it? A nutrition plan! For Quidditch!”   
  
“Definitely mad.” Ron agreed, finishing off his third pig in a blanket. 

“I really would have thought they’d at least be allowed home for Christmas.” Mrs. Weasley said. “It’s bad enough Bill and Charlie live so far, but Percy and Ginny working?” 

“Way of the world, dear. You raised go-getters!” Mr. Weasley said, comfortingly. 

As the meal wound down, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley excused themselves to start the clearing up, and waved off any offers of help. Fred knocked on the top of Ron’s head. 

“Stop by the shop this evening, we’ve got product ideas. And you,” he said, turning to Hermione and tugging on a lock of her hair. “Fancy being seen in public with me?”

She arched an eyebrow. “I’ve been in public with you a few times, Mr. Weasley.”   
  
“Fair point,” he conceded. “How’s dinner then?” 

Hermione flushed a little bit and nodded, and Fred grinned. He and George Disapperated with loud  _ CRACK _ s. 

Ron was still sitting at the table, and flapped his hand at Hermione when she turned to him nervously. “I’m happy for you. Really. And if he’s a prick I can set mum on him, so it works out well.” he told her sincerely. She looked relieved. 

“Thanks Ron.” She sat down and poured herself a cup of tea, raising her eyebrows at Ron and Harry in turn and pouring cups for them as well when they nodded. “You know, I was thinking about that group. Yesterday.”   
  
Harry sat down. “Yeah?” 

“‘From the ashes’. It’s odd, I know but, well. Harry, wasn’t ‘ashes’ written on the Parkinson’s house?” she asked. Harry’s blood ran cold. 

“And someone tried to burn Nott’s.” he agreed. 

“Oh come off it,” Ron said, “You don’t think it could have been them. Half of that group was little old ladies!” 

“That we saw.” Harry said, slowly. “You don’t think that entire town belongs to that group, do you?” 

Ron shrugged. “A few little villages like that were abandoned when You-Know-Who took over Hogwarts. They might have moved in to be someplace quiet.” 

“I think I’m going to see if anyone has looked into this group.” Harry said, firmly. “They seemed upset, and they could be dangerous.”

“Harry, mate, he’s a Hufflepuff.” Ron said “Can’t be that dangerous. What’s he going to do, care and feed people to death?”    
  
“I believe your mother is currently attempting it, Ronald.” Hermione replied while discreetly loosening her waistband with her wand.   
  


“It’s just a support group! A kind of weird support group!” Ron insisted. Harry sighed. 

“I know. It probably is. But just in case it isn’t, I want to check. What if someone is seriously hurt?” Harry said, thinking of the burns on Malfoy’s hands. 

“There can’t be any harm in checking, Ron.” Hermione said, quietly. 

“I’ll have to be sneaky about it, somehow. Dawlish is involved. And the only other Auror with ties to the Order is Kingsley and, well. Can’t bother the Minister with this, not until I know something is wrong.” Harry sighed. “I’m going to need to work with Malfoy.” 

Ron groaned. “I knew it. I knew it was coming, and yet, nope. Still rubbish.” 

~*~ 

Harry didn’t have an opportunity to bring up the letters or the Children of the Phoenix with Malfoy for nearly a week. Inspiration struck late into their session on Thursday. 

“Hey, Malfoy,” he said, hoping his tone was casual, “Did you see that thing in the paper about the Leaky Cauldron? They’ve got one of those weird heffy-whatsit beers you like now.”    
  
Malfoy sighed. “Hefeweizen. Since when do you care about my beer tastes?” 

Harry shrugged, and tried to look at Malfoy meaningfully. “I don’t, just thought I’d mention it. In case you needed a reason to  _ go to the Leaky _ .” Malfoy’s eyes widened. 

“Oh, I don’t like the Leaky.” he said smoothly. “It’s so plebeian. Eagle and Rook, around the corner, has a superior beer selection,” he paused, “and a decent Happy Hour menu on Thursdays.” 

Harry raised his eyebrows, and Malfoy nodded very minutely. 

“Hermione likes the wine bar, what is it? Next to the Weasley shop?” Harry rifled through his papers. “I think I’ve got this Strengthening Solution down, but if you could show me what I did wrong with this one…” 

~*~

Eagle and Rook wasn’t as shabby as The Leaky Cauldron, but Harry was pleased to find it was still solidly a pub. Solid wood bar, brass rail, slight tang of tobacco in the air. He, Hermione, and Ron had claimed a table near the back, not so exposed as to make conversation impossible, but not so secluded as to be suspicious. Just three friends trying to build bridges and mend fences with an old enemy. Bygones. 

“Nothing to see heeeere,” Harry said under his breath in a sing-song voice, and Ron looked at him, concerned. Harry shrugged and waved a hand distractedly. 

“Do we want a plate of chips or is that a silly question?” Hermione asked, peering at the Happy Hour menu. “Oh Merlin, there’s  _ crab dip _ on those chips, that is genius.” 

“I’d get the chips, if I was you.” a smooth voice said next to their table, and the trio looked up to see Malfoy, wearing a jumper, clutching a pint, and looking uncomfortable. “May I sit?” 

Harry nodded. Hermione beamed. “Anyone else want me to put an order in while I’m up?” she asked. 

“Ask me again in three beers,” Ron joked. Harry clinked his glass to Ron’s in response, and focused on Malfoy again. The paler man was sitting across from Harry, Hermione at his right. By unspoken agreement, Ron had sat as far away from Malfoy’s seat as possible. 

“What do you know about the Children of the Phoenix?” Harry asked Malfoy quietly. Malfoy looked taken aback, and then shrugged. 

“I don’t know much. What’s been in the paper, it’s mostly society bits. It’s a support group, isn’t it? For people who lost someone in the war?” 

“Very angry people who lost someone in the war.” Hermione said quietly, sitting down again. “Harry, I got you kebabs because you’re a disaster of a human being and we know you’ll be headed to, what was it? Meat Town? Eventually.” 

Harry ducked his head. “First rule of pub night is no discussion of Meat Town until properly soused!” he scolded Hermione. Ron snorted. 

“First rule of pub night is no one gives Hermione tequila before midnight.” 

Malfoy looked bewildered. “I thought this was an information gathering meeting?” 

“It is. It’s also people being friendly at a pub. Any problem with that?” Harry asked, challenging. Malfoy raised his hands in mock surrender. 

“If that means Granger is going to share those chips then, no, perfectly fine. In fact, next round is on me, I insist.” Malfoy said. Ron’s eyebrows shot up. 

“Alright then. No tequila. Yeah, they were properly upset. And it felt, I’ll say it, strange in that meeting.” Ron admitted. 

“Considering how long it’s been, the wounds seemed, well, fresh. Still. Like they’re not allowing themselves to heal.” Hermione stared into her cider glass. “Not that I expect people to get over things at the same rate, but… Hannah didn’t seem this bad a year ago.” 

Malfoy frowned. “She lost a brother. Second year, I believe? He was friends with a Slytherin in his year, I caught him trying to sneak into our Common Room when he was a First Year.” 

Hermione nodded. “There was something odd about that group. Hannah’s behavior seemed weird, they were all living there, it’s almost like…” she trailed off in horror. 

Harry, Malfoy, and Ron looked at her. “Almost like what?” Harry asked. 

“Where is your mother, Draco?” Hermione asked urgently. Malfoy looked stunned. 

“On the continent with a cousin, why? What’s going on?” 

“Hermione, what is it?” Harry asked. 

“Chips!” A perky blonde witch deposited the plate on the table, “And kababs.” Hermione reached forward and took a chip distractedly, staring at the table as though it had answers. She mechanically ate five, not noticing that the dip was falling back onto the plate with each one. Harry wordlessly handed her a fork. 

“Thanks. I think… I’m not sure.” she started, between bites of chip and dip, “I’m not sure, but, well. You know how, even before You-Know-Who, wizards have had a fascination with blood and ancestry?” 

Ron and Draco nodded. Harry’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I’m getting to it. The village, the chanting, the one charismatic leader that controls everything? What does that sound like, Harry?”

Harry felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. “Oh Merlin. It’s a cult. It’s a  _ cult _ .” 

Ron and Draco now looked confused. “There have been a few, within the last few decades, in the Muggle world. We’ve covered them in class. It’s… it’s usually not good.” Harry explained. 

“And with the Wizarding obsession with blood…” Hermione started, and downed the rest of her cider. “Draco, Harry told me about your hands. What if they’re making you pay for the sins of your father?” 

“What? But his dad’s in jail!” Ron exclaimed. Hermione shrugged. Draco’s face looked ashen. 

“Ashes.” he whispered, hoarsely. At that moment, as though summoned, a ghostly white pug made of pure light came speeding into the pub. “That’s Pansy’s Patronus!” 

The Patronus sailed up to the table, and opened its mouth. Pansy’s voice came from it, sounding terrified. “Draco, come quick, the house, it’s on fire, no one is coming, you have to bring help. Please, Draco.”

Draco stood. “She’s got the same bracelet I have, she would have needed a wand to perform that spell. She’s in trouble, and probably shackled now.” 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione stood as well, Harry leaving a pile of gold on the table. 

Harry stepped up to Draco. “Can you Apparate?” Draco nodded. “Okay, here’s the plan. Mione, call the Aurors, let them know a house is on fire, get the address from Draco.” Draco looked slightly shocked by the use of his first name, but nodded again. “I’m going to go with Draco to the Parkinson’s house and see if I can help. Ron, I want you to get Luna. We’ve got a story for her, tell her to bring the camera. Go!” 

They rushed out the front door, Ron and Hermione Disapperating almost as soon as their feet hit the pavement. Draco held up his hand, and Harry grasped it firmly. There was a jerk behind his navel, a twisting sensation, and the next thing he knew they were standing on the grounds of a stately mansion wreathed in flames. The snow surrounding the building glittered and melted. Harry and Draco ran towards the house, but Harry grabbed Draco by the collar and held him back. 

“You don’t have a wand!” he shouted. 

“And she’s my bloody best friend!” Draco shouted back. Harry rolled his eyes. 

“Stay behind me.” 

They hurried towards the building, Harry targeting whatever fire he could reach with an  _ Aguamenti _ charm. Behind him, Draco yelled for Pansy. A pair of shackled hands banged on an upstairs window, and Draco’s eyes went wide. 

“There!” he shouted, and ran into the house before Harry could stop him. Harry bit back a frustrated yell, and focused on the fire. He walked forward, breathing steadily, held his wand in front of him and  _ pushed _ . The fire blocking Draco’s path pushed aside, and Harry ran after him into the burning house. 

They found Pansy on the floor of her room, coughing. Harry tapped the shackled bracelets with his wand. Nothing happened. Cursing, he stepped back and allowed Draco to help her to her feet. 

“We need to get out, is there anyone else here?” Harry yelled, looking back at Pansy. She started to say something, and swooned onto Draco. Draco cursed. 

“Get her out, I’ll be right behind you!” Harry yelled, performing a Featherweight Charm on Pansy. Draco held her in his arms, and ran, as fast as he could, out of the room and down the stairs. Harry followed behind him. There was a creaking noise as they stepped off of the stairs and out the front door, and the roof started to fall in. 

“Go, go!” Harry yelled. Three figures Apparated on the lawn, two in protective robes. Harry, Draco, and Pansy crashed into the snow. 

“Is there anyone inside?” One wizard asked Harry, who shook his head. 

“I don’t know. We got the one person we knew was in there, she needs a Healer.” He explained urgently. The two robed wizards nodded at each other, and walked towards the flames, wand ready. Hermione stooped down to look at Pansy. 

“Well, she has a pulse. We need to get her to St. Mungos. You two should probably get looked at as well. Ron found Luna, she’s going to get pictures here and talk to the Aurors, then she’ll be by the hospital to speak to you.” She looked at Harry. “One year without daring-do and you run into a burning building.” 

Harry shrugged. 

~*~ 

_ HOUSE FIRE AT PARKINSON MANOR _

_ Luna Lovegood reporting for the Daily Prophet _

_ Last evening, a fire was set at the home of Reginald and Dorrett Parkinson outside of Surrey. The blaze was stopped by the heroic efforts of Aurors Boris Applewood and Marcus Scharff, who were alerted to the fire by a Miss Hermione Granger. Traditional fire detection and alarm spells had been deactivated. Mrs. Parkinson perished in the fire, but is survived by her daughter, Pansy, who was rescued by her friend Draco Malfoy, and Auror Trainee Harry Potter. Miss Parkinson is recovering from her injuries in the Burn Ward of St. Mungo's Hospital in London.  _

_ As of the time of publication, the cause of the fire is unknown, but Aurors have reason to believe there may be an arsonist at work. An investigation has been opened.  _

_ Reginald Parkinson is currently in Azkaban indefinitely for his part in the rise to power of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and could not be reached for comment.  _

_ Anyone who has any information on this terrible occurence is encouraged to report to the Aurors.  _

Harry put down the paper, feeling sick. He, Ron, and Hermione had returned to Number Twelve late the night before. Harry had showered, trying to get the smell of smoke and ash out of his hair and skin. And then he had tried to go to bed, but his mind was spinning. 

Could the Children of the Phoenix have done this? It seemed a stretch, even knowing what he did. Dawlish and Hannah didn’t seem the- actually. Hannah had been quick to follow Malfoy in the “Support Cedric Diggory” campaign, and just as quick to join the DA the next year. And Dawlish… Dawlish had always been susceptible to suggestion, hadn’t Moody said that?

Harry wished he could talk to Moody now. Or Dumbledore. Or Sirius or anyone, really. He needed someone to tell him if he was rushing to conclusions again, but he had nothing like an authority figure… Wait a minute… 

Harry leaped out of bed and turned on the light on his desk, grabbed a piece of parchment and a quill, and wrote a letter. 

_ Auror Singh- _

_ I am interested in learning more about the phenomenon of cults as they relate to the Wizarding World. As I have a Muggle upbringing, I only know of Muggle cults and similar groups.  _

_ I would appreciate if you did not share this interest with other Aurors.  _

_ Best regards, _

_ Harry Potter _

That seemed to take care of that. Harry promised himself he would hand it to Auror Singh in the morning, and with that, fell back into bed for a few hours of much needed sleep. 

~*~

  
  


Harry slipped the note in with his homework for that week. He struggled to pay attention to the rest of the lecture, knowing Auror Singh was less likely to be inclined to help a poor student. Normally legal precedent for jinxing another wizard’s elbows off would be interesting. Instead he jiggled his leg impatiently and snuck looks at the clock affixed to the wall. 

Potions with Auror Blackwell went more smoothly. Malfoy, Draco, had drilled into his head over the past few weeks how important it was to pay attention in potions, and Harry was careful here not to let his focus slip. He was in the final stages of an Invisibility Solution when Auror Blackwell placed a note on his desk. 

“From Auror Singh. Don’t worry,” the taller man rumbled with a small smile at Harry’s jerk of panic, “We were partners in the last year of Academy.  Sitara and I have each others’ full confidence.”

Harry nodded dumbly, and watched as his teacher swept along the aisle. In what was even for him a surprising demonstration of self control, he waited to open the letter until after his potion had been removed from the heat to cool before decanting. He set a Timer charm, eight minutes and forty-three seconds exactly, and ripped open the letter. 

_ Dear Mr. Potter,  _

_ While normally I encourage students to do their own research in our rather spectacular and well-funded library, I suspect your motives in asking are not purely academic. Kingsley Shacklebolt speaks highly of your gut, which is high praise indeed. Don’t let it go to your head.  _

_ Meet me and Auror Blackwell in his office after class. I suspect we have much to discuss.  _

_ -Auror Singh _

  1. _Surveillance Charms are a rather grating aspect of Academy life, are they not?_



Harry stared at the letter. Alright, so he wasn’t Hermione, but was he that transparent? 

_ Obviously, Potter. _ A voice that sounded suspiciously like Mal- dammit. Like  _ Draco _ sneered in his head. He read the postscript again. Surveillance Charms are grating. It seemed like an odd thing to close a letter with but-

Hang on.

Harry scanned the dungeon room quickly. There, in the middle of the floor. A grate, for drainage. All potions rooms had them. The surveillance charm must be there. His timer charm hooted. 

Harry took a deep breath, and steadied himself. He decanted his potion quickly, affixing a label stating his name, class period, and the vial’s contents neatly. The vials were loaded, mechanically, into his shallow wooden tray, which would be collected at the end of class. Until then, he allowed his mind to spin. 

If they could deactivate the Surveillance Charm, he and Draco could talk freely. But the absence would be noticed, surely. If only muggle electronics worked here, he could just…

Harry stared at the wall, his mind working furiously. He needed to talk to Draco. But first he had to talk to his Professors. What could he ask them? He couldn’t just ask about the Children of the Phoenix. Look at Dawlish. 

He barely registered the bell, or the rest of his classmates packing up and leaving, and startled when Auror Blackwell tapped him on the shoulder. 

“And how was your journey to Howondaland, Mr. Potter?” the older wizard asked easily, as Harry jumped up and began packing hurridley. 

“Sir?”

Blackwell waved a hand carelessly. “A muggle fictional place. Though I suspect its author may be more magical than we had thought. This way, Mr. Potter. Sitara will have eaten all of the best biscuits.” 

He followed his professor out of the classroom and down the hall, trying not to feel like he was in trouble for something. This feeling was quashed when Auror Blackwell opened the office door to reveal Auror Singh with a biscuit in each hand. She looked at Blackwell, then at Harry. 

“Biscuit, Abraxas?” she asked Blackwell sweetly. 

“I’m telling Maria if you keep this up, you know she’s worried about your blood sugar. Stop gawking, Potter, it’s just your professor. Sit. Have a biscuit, if you can find any.” Blackwell settled himself into his chair. 

A house elf wearing a tea towel emblazoned with the emblem of the Academy rushed past Harry holding a full tea tray, which it deposited with a bow. It nearly knocked into Harry on its way out. 

“Mr. Student should be sitting, Nippy thinks!” the elf squeaked at him sharply. Harry quickly sat in the remaining chair, trying to ignore the snickering of his professors. By the time he had put his bag under his chair, they had regained a measure of gravitas and were calmly pouring tea. 

“Now then, Mr. Potter,” Auror Singh began, “Your letter indicated that there was some need for secrecy in your inquiry. You do not have your course on coded communications until next fall, so I will forgive your heavy handed approach. However-” she took a sip of tea and stared at him with bright, kohl-lined eyes, “one begins to wonder why Mr. Potter is interested in Wizarding cults.”

“Voldemort.” Harry blurted, his thoughts racing again. “And Grindelwald. Surely it must have happened before?”   
  
“Ah, Voldemort.” Blackwell nudged the sugar bowl away from Singh. “So this has nothing to do with the conversation you had with Auror Dawlish?”   
  
Harry stared, aware his mouth was hanging open. They knew?

“Surveillance charms are terribly grating.” Auror Singh said with a grim smile. “Yes, Potter, we know. And we’re on your side. Something is going on, and Dawlish, that fool, is in the middle of it. Shacklebolt always said he’d be one of the first Imperiused.” 

“Permission to speak, ma’am.” Harry said, heart thudding in his throat. Both professors nodded. “I don’t believe Imperius to be involved at this juncture. All seems, well, legal. Weird, but legal.” 

Blackwell nodded. “You speak of a group near Hogsmeade, correct?”

Harry’s eyes darted to the grate in the floor. Auror Singh snorted. “Looping charm. Anyone listening will hear the sound of grading papers and dull student questions. Most professors have put them down, lets us get a bit of a kip in.” 

Relieved, Harry nodded and looked to his Potions instructor. “Yes, sir.” 

“And you think they may have some connection to the house fires, the last of which caused a death?”   
  


Harry looked at Blackwell’s face closely. The handsome, dark face gave nothing away, but there was a shine to his eyes that Harry found reminiscent of Dumbledore’s. 

“Yes sir.” 

“Could you explain your reasoning, Mr. Potter?” Auror Singh cut in. Harry nodded. 

“I think I can. The first fire at the Parkinson house, the word “ashes” had been scrawled. Later, the word “rise” was burned onto the lawn. When we were at the meeting in Chipping Knockdale, they chanted “from the ashes”, and the leader talked about “rising together”. I thought they’d just taken the phoenix imagery from the Order, but…” 

“But it seems the rhetoric this group is using is loosely related to two house burnings?” Auror Singh asked, skepticism lacing her tone. Harry shook his head. 

“They’re really angry. And grieving. Not like everyone else is grieving, it’s still… fresh. I don’t know who this guy is to them, but he’s not letting them move on, it’s like it just happened yesterday. They’re looking for someone to blame, for revenge.” Harry took a deep breath and continued. “Draco Malfoy has been personally targeted. Hexes and bubotuber pus in the mail… You’ve mentioned escalation multiple times in class, Auror Singh. If one person can escalate, couldn’t a whole group?”

She leaned back in her chair. “You and Malfoy were in school together, correct? I seem to remember his name appearing alongside yours during the Triwizard Tournament. You know what he’s done, what his father did. How can you take his word?” 

Harry was taken aback by their questioning. “Auror Singh, I-”

“The word of a man with the Mark on his arm does not count for much, Mr. Potter.” Blackwell said quietly. “Do you have evidence?”

Harry thought. “He has burns on his arms and hands, multiple burns. Some look as if from a caustic material, some look like spell damage. The caustic material could have been a potions accident, but Malfoy currently has no access to a wand. He has the Probation Bracelet on.” 

Blackwell nodded. “Very good. Miss Parkinson was found with her shackles activated. Could she have set the fire?” 

Recognizing the flow of conversation now, Harry shook his head. “No. Her shackles were activated following the casting of a Patronus charm, which she sent to Mr. Malfoy. I was with him at the time. According to our class notes, the Probation Shackles block magical energy after one spell, impeding even wandless magic.” He felt like Hermione. Auror Singh looked pleased. 

“Excellent, Potter. You’ve eliminated the most likely suspects in most people’s minds through deduction based on evidence. What do you need?” 

“We need… We need evidence linking the group, or a group, to the crimes.” Harry said, working it out. “Wand signatures at the scene of the fire?”

Blackwell shook his head. “You’re at the Academy now, Potter. What you  _ need _ , is to get on that case. Officially. Shadow Auror Michaels. He’s running that investigation. He’s a good man, he’ll listen to you as long as you keep. Your. Head.” 

“So no breaking into the Department of Mysteries or anything, yeah?” Auror Singh joked, and Harry smiled weakly. 

“Thank you both, really. Just,” Harry paused, looking into the teacup he hadn’t touched, “Why are you helping me?” 

The two professors looked at Harry, then at each other. Singh raised her eyebrows and tilted her head towards Harry meaningfully. Blackwell sighed. 

“Two reasons. One, as your professors in this academy, it’s our job to prepare you. You’ve got good instincts, Potter. You’d be a waste as an Auror if you allowed the impulsiveness shown on your school record to continue.” 

It wasn’t an insult, but a bald statement of fact. Harry nodded. 

“And the second? Sir?”

Blackwell looked at Singh again, who made a little shooing motion with her hands. Blackwell shook his head, and Singh sighed. 

“We stood where you do in 1969.” she said, carefully. Harry looked at her, confused. “So young. Voldemort’s first official rise to power was in 1970. Ah, there’s the lightbulb. When Abraxas, here, and I were at the Academy, we caught wind of some of Voldemort’s plans. He wasn’t powerful. Yet. A strong wizard with some controversial ideas, yes. And there were some suspicious accidents, but this was Britain in the 1960’s. We were still reeling from the second Muggle World War. I’m still not convinced the Beatles were muggles. Anyway. 

“Professor Blackwell and I had Muggleborn friends. And like most people that end up becoming Aurors, we were suspicious bastards. Anti-Muggle sentiment was high after the war, as you can imagine. When London was bombed, Diagon Alley was mostly unscathed, but other Wizarding homes and establishments were less protected and were destroyed. There were deaths, of course. Easiest to blame the muggles for hauling us into a war we didn’t ask for. 

“So it wasn’t unusual for muggleborn witches and wizards to come home to their house vandalized, or to be harrassed on the street. But we noticed something more… dangerous. ‘Accidents’, they were usually reported as. Like I said, we’d heard about Voldemort, of course. The name ‘Death Eater’ wouldn’t be known until the seventies, so it was just this man and a few followers. We found evidence, all circumstantial, that linked them to attacks on Muggles, on Muggleborns. It was thrown out as unimportant.” 

Auror Singh refilled her tea cup and took a sip. She sighed. 

“This is not the same. The Death Eaters were, and remain, a terrorist group. There are similar aspects: the branding, the removal of identity. The loyalty to one person, and eventual deification of that individual. But in a group like you describe, you see members giving  _ everything _ . Their money, their lives, their families. And the motivation will be different. Here we see people motivated by grief and love, not by hate. It’s going to be a PR nightmare.”

Harry nodded, trying to absorb what she was saying. “It, well. It reminded me of a Muggle cult, the early stages. Like you’d covered in class.”    
  
Auror Blackwell sighed. “And you may very well be right. But it’s not illegal to form a cult . So step back, and focus on the case. You’ve got a suspect pool, which will help. But remember that you are a  _ trainee _ and Auror Michaels is running point.”

Harry nodded, trying desperately not to feel like a child being chastised. “Yes sir.”

His professors nodded at each other. “We don’t need to tell you that this meeting never happened, I trust?” Auror Singh asked, lightly. Harry grinned, weakly. 

“What meeting?” 

“Exactly. Now, run along Potter. I believe you have a remedial to get to. And I, another lecture. Ta, Abraxas.”

Auror Singh shooed Harry out of the office ahead of her, closing the door firmly with a  _ click _ . As they made their way down the hallway, Harry could have sworn he heard a muffled curse and the words “ginger biscuit” through the door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there's the third chapter! A longer one this time. 
> 
> Sorry for the slight delay, I'm going to try to get Chapter Four up on Monday as usual! 
> 
> A quick note, from here out the story earns its M rating. I remind you this IS a horror story, and it does get graphic.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. The Manor Arson Task Force

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry begins official work on the case...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the story begins to earn its rating, folks. Gore and horror warning, minor character death

Harry’s lesson with Malf-  _ Draco _ was frustrating, to say the least. Harry put the looping spell in place on the grate, but Draco seemed uninclined to talk. And Harry, for his part, seemed to be unable to focus on the lesson at hand. 

“No, no!  _ Two _ crushed juniper berries, not three!” Draco snapped, grabbing Harry’s hand before he could toss another berry into the cauldron. “I don’t particularly  _ want _ to be laminated to the wall, do you, Potter?”

“Harry.” Harry said automatically. He put the berry down and rubbed the back of his wrist across his eyes. “Sorry Draco, I’m having trouble focusing.” 

He’d never seen anything approaching warmth in those grey eyes before. Hatred, chilly indifference, fear, despair, determination… Those all seemed normal on that pale, pointed face. Draco’s eyes flickered to the grate. 

“You swear, it’s in place? And this isn’t a trap?” He murmured, so quiet it was barely audible. Harry nodded. Draco sighed. 

“Measure out a dram of the elderflower extract. And then we can talk, we’ll have a few minutes after that goes in.” 

The potion took on a more distinct, floral aroma once the extract was added. It was pleasant. Draco sighed again and leaned back. 

“This is a relaxation potion. It can have similar applications to veritaseum, but is often ignored because the dosing is… complicated. It relaxes the drinker to the point where talking is easy, and in many people causes a feeling of euphoria.” He snorted. “A party game in the sixth and seventh years of Slytherin is to get a small group of people to all have a bit, and then try not to tell all of your secrets. Needless to say, I’ve never played it. With a few minor adjustments, it can become the street potion known as Morgana’s Tears. Powerful compulsion potion. Like the Imperius but you’re high as a broomstick.” 

Harry looked at the cauldron, shocked. “Are we supposed to be learning how to make it?”   
  
Draco looked back at him, lazily. “Harry Potter is not someone who is going to recognize a potion based on a description in a lecture. Auror Blackwell recommended this one today. I was as surprised as you, allowing a known felon to brew this is a gamble for a man in his position.” 

The room smelled of flowers, and somehow, sunshine. “Er, Draco. Do the brewing fumes have the same effect?” 

Draco snorted. “No, Potter. It just smells nice. Enjoy it. Now, tell me what’s got you unable to focus. And if you tell  _ anyone _ I’ve been friendly to you, I’m putting this in your tea.”

“Harry.” Harry said automatically again. Draco acknowledged him with a roll of his eyes and a wave of his hand. “There’s an investigation. A real one. I’m going to be shadowing the Auror running point.”    
  
“Forgive me if I’m not leaping for joy.”

“But we can catch whoever is doing this!” Harry exclaimed. Draco looked at him, dully. 

“And the person after that?” 

“Pardon?” 

“Po-Harry.” Draco held the wrist with the silver bracelet in front of Harry’s face. “There is a Dark Mark on this arm. Remember? I fucked up. People are angry.”

“So make it better!” Harry said hotly, trying not for the first time today to quash the feeling of being a small child. At Draco’s blank look, he elaborated. “I don’t know, help a charity, something. Work for the Weasleys for a month. You’re not as much of a prick as I thought, maybe other people just need to see that too.” 

“Merlin’s beard, Potter, I’m not wearing any jumpers.” 

Harry waved a hand. “You’re years away from a jumper, Molly killed your aunt.” 

\---

In the end, Harry decided that the Weasleys were the most likely people to help him on this… project. Yes, Fred and George had been right with him, beating the crap out of Malfoy for talking about their mum, but, well… if Draco was going to start apologizing, Harry Potter’s adopted family didn’t seem like a horrible start. And Harry had a secret weapon. Harry had Hermione. And Hermione was clever. 

“Just bring him to pub night a few times, or better yet, throw a party and get everyone soused.” she said without looking up from her essay. 

“If only we could use that potion, but it’s apparently banned at the moment.” Harry lamented. Hermione looked up and squinted at him. 

“You want a liquid that people will drink, and then become more willing to talk? Alcohol, Harry. Like a normal person.” 

“Fred’s been rubbing off on you.” 

“Frequently. When do you start shadowing?” The rustle of her papers and the scratching of her quill was so familiar and comforting, Harry abandoned his pacing and came to sit with her at the kitchen table. 

Harry’s head fell forward and hit the table with a dull  _ thunk _ . “Tuesday. It’s a little early for me to start shadowing an auror for Academy work, but not unheard of. Huntsworth isn’t sure about me on this case, for some reason. Wanted me to work a string of B and E’s down near Kent.” 

“Well, you do look a little close to it, Harry. They’re old classmates. I’ve been keeping an eye on Blaise, but you know him, he’s impossible to read. I don’t think anyone’s harassed him.” 

Harry grunted. “Blaise’s parents weren’t associated with anyone, neutral party. He spent our seventh year studying abroad in Southern Italy.” 

When Hermione didn’t say anything right away, Harry looked up. “I’m starting with the Slytherins in our year. Those with clear, public Death Eater ties have been harassed, like Pansy and Draco. But not the rest of the year. So someone is smart and paying attention.” 

Hermione looked impressed. “Harry Potter, have you been researching?” 

“Mostly thinking. I’m supposed to focus on these fires but, I don’t know, Mione. Didn’t something in that meeting feel off to you?”

She shivered and put her quill down. “I don’t know if it was magic or just emotion, but there was something in that room, Harry. But... Maybe the Aurors are right. I mean, you’ve got your classes, your supplemental tutoring, and now the shadowing... Are you sure you’re not expecting trouble because it’s a school year?” 

Harry stared at her. “But, Hermione, you saw it too!” 

“I  _ saw _ a lot of people in a village wearing similar clothes and bonding over grief. I didn’t see any weapons-

“Wizards, Hermione!” 

“-or anything indicating people were being mistreated. Nothing for the Aurors to handle. You’ve got some rhetoric that is loosely related to some graffiti found at your burn sites. It’s circumstantial at best.” 

Harry stared at her. “This isn’t Hogwarts, Harry.” Hermione said softly. “Dumbledore isn’t here to be the benevolent force that backs up your theories. This is the  _ law _ . If you’re right, you’ll find something in the fires.”

“If you’re gearing up to quote Shakespeare again I’m leaving, university has ruined you.” Harry complained. 

“Don’t let Ron hear you say that, he already agrees. And besides, getting George interested in iambic pentameter led to a new product! I do wish he’d change the name, though, Bard Brownies sound like something frightful.” 

~*~

As part of his work with the Manor Arson Task Force (which was already poorly named, the Goyles lived in a small house up near Essex), Harry and another junior member of the team, Auror Whittensworth were interviewing families of convicted and incarcerated or deceased Death Eaters. A visit to the Crabbe resident had left them with a door slammed in their faces. Mrs. Yaxley had welts on her hands, but refused to talk. When Mrs. Goyle opened her front door, Harry had the distinct feeling they weren’t going to get anything here. 

“Our Greg didn’t do nothin’.” she said upon greeting them at the door. Harry and Auror Whittensworth looked at each other, and then back at her. 

“We’re glad to hear it. We’re actually here to talk to you, see if you’ve gotten anything suspicious in the mail, that sort of thing.” Auror Whittensworth said breezily, and Harry marveled over her ease at redirecting Mrs. Goyle’s ire. The shorter, older woman looked up at them, suspicion still evident in her furrowed eyes. 

“Mighta been some. Come in, if you have to. Mind the door, my spellwork isn’t what is was and it’s just me in the ‘ouse now.” 

They followed Mrs. Goyle into a well scrubbed but small kitchen. She gestured them into chairs, and lit the stove under the kettle with a muttered  _ incendio. _

“Mrs. Goyle, we realize that this has been a difficult time for you-” Auror Whittensworth started, and was cut off by Mrs. Goyle’s bitter laughter. 

“Oh, a difficult time, has it? With my ‘usband and son off in the slammer because Gerald couldn’t think for his damn self?” she sneered, and Harry’s eyes dropped to her hands. Angry red welts covered them. 

“Mrs. Goyle, were your hands injured after contact with a letter?” he asked, quietly. She flinched and looked down at her hands. 

“Yeah. Didn’t recognise the owl, thought it might be from Greg. They’re only allowed the one letter a week but, well. A mum wants to hear from her boy.” she stuck her chin out, and Harry was reminded of Aunt Petunia. The women looked nothing alike; Ava Goyle was short and stocky, with a red face and hair that might have been chestnut once. Harry caught Auror Whittensworth’s eye and nodded slightly. She leaned back a fraction of an inch in her chair. 

“You know,” Harry said, aiming for casual, “I’ve been working with Draco Malfoy. His hands look just like yours. Wouldn’t say where the letters were from but, well. I shouldn’t say.” 

Mrs Goyle squinted at him, her eyes tracing his face and landing where his scar was still barely visible. 

“You’re that Potter lad. A copper now, eh? Color me surprised.”

“So, you don’t know where they’re from either?” Harry asked carefully. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the corner of Auror Whittensworth’s mouth tip up a fraction of a centimeter. Mrs. Goyle snorted. 

“That Malfoy brat couldn’t do anything without our Greg there to protect him. Surprised he opened it himself, the posh little shit. Anyway, of course I know where it’s from. Saved it, didn’t I? Thought it might be someone trying to get to our Greg.” 

She heaved herself out of of her chair, shut off the kettle and pulled three slightly battered mugs out of the cabinet. Two seemed to be emblazoned with the logos for the Falmouth Falcons, but the third, and Harry had to crane to read it, said “World’s Best Mum” in a familiar, clumsy script. 

“Our Greg made me that.” Mrs. Goyle said quietly. “When he were a little lad. Not bright, and maybe he got too much of the hitting from his old dad. But he’s not a bad boy.” 

Harry cleared his throat. “Mrs. Goyle, could we please have that letter? I think he’d want to know who’d want to hurt his mum.”  _ And beat the stuffing out of them _ , he added silently to himself. 

She stared at him, her blistered hands twisting together. Auror Whittensworth sat, quietly, hands folded on the table. The heavy oak cuckoo clock ticked. Then Mrs. Goyle nodded, stiffly, and left the room. 

Looking after her quickly, Harry whipped out his wand and cast  _ Muffliato _ . 

“Fast thinking, Potter. Now, take this,” Auror Whittensworth took a thin paper bag out of her pocket. “It’s charmed, but we haven’t had any issues with it interacting with any unknown magic yet. I’m taking you to meet the lab techs, after this. Now. What’s your play here?” 

Harry shrugged. “We’re always sympathetic to the victim, right? She’s been hurt, we’re supposed to find out who hurt her. And hope no one burns her house down.” 

Auror Whittensworth nodded. “There’s the Gryffindor logic I was hoping for from you. Here she comes,  _ Finite Incantatem.”  _

Mrs. Goyle came back into the small kitchen holding an envelope, a piece of paper visible in the torn opening. Harry watched as Auror Whittensworth stood, then touched her wand to both of her own palms in turn and muttered an Impenetrable Charm. Hands now magically gloved, she gently took the letter from Mrs. Goyle, who watched uneasily. 

“Quick Quotes Quill for the address, won’t be able to do a handwriting analysis.” the Auror said, turning the letter. “And… oh dear. You need to go to Saint Mungo's, Mrs. Goyle. As soon as possible. This looks nasty.” 

“What is it?” Mrs. Goyle asked, clearly afraid now. Auror Whittensworth shook her head. 

“I don’t like to speculate, but a Healer should see to you. Now. Trainee Potter will take you. Harry, Apparate Mrs. Goyle, please. I’m getting this to the lab.” 

Harry, surprised to see his normally calm teammate in such a state, jumped from his chair and took the now trembling Mrs. Goyle gently by the arm. 

“Ready?” he asked her, and she nodded. “Then three, two-” and the world twisted away. 

~*~

Four hours later, Harry was sitting in the waiting area, a stale and cold cup of tea in his hands, surrounded by frighteningly cheerful Valentine’s decorations. Mrs. Goyle was fine, and resting comfortably, but an owl had come from Auror Michaels ordering him to stay there until the Healers had a better idea what the substance was. 

“I’ve not seen anything quite like it,” a Healer that had introduced himself as “Smith, Robert Smith, no relation”, had told Harry. “There’s nerve damage to the hands but not physical nerve damage,  _ magical _ nerve damage. Your lab techs are going to have a bunny of a time trying to sort this one, Mr. Potter, I don’t mind telling you that. We’re working on figuring out how to reverse it, to help Mrs. Goyle here, but well. Tracking down whoever made this spell or potion or Merlin, it might even be a plant! That’ll be tricky I expect.” 

“A  _ plant _ ? What, someone took a knob and turned bubotuber pus up to eleven?” Harry had asked, and the man had laughed. 

“Might be. She’s safe now, we’ve got her stable. But you should tell anyone that has similar injuries to come to us as soon as they show up, there could be lasting damage.” 

Which is why Harry was sitting here, staring at his hands, his mind whirring. Okay, so he wasn’t supposed to jump to the cu-group. Evidence. He needed evidence. And he needed Draco Sodding Malfoy to answer his damn owl. 

A voice that sounded suspiciously like Hermione piped up in his head  _ You know, you’re being thick about this. List your facts, what do you know? _

Fact one. Houses of known Death Eaters had been burned down, those belonging to the Nott family and the Parkinson family. The patriarchs of both families had been on Voldemort’s inner circle. And both families were listed in the Sacred Twenty Eight, which was some kind of list of the Old Pure Blood families. 

Fact two. Letters had been delivered containing some kind of caustic spell or substance. These letters left distinctive red welts. The welts had been seen on the hands of Aurora Yaxley, Ava Goyle, and Draco Malfoy. Yaxley and Malfoy were both on the Sacred Twenty Eight list, but Goyle was not. 

So the letters were not about blood status, they were about Voldemort. 

Harry focused on the family names again, pulling his notebook out of his shirt pocket and clicking the pen Hermione had given him. Malfoy. Goyle. Yaxley. Parkinson. Nott. 

All of them but Yaxley had had a child at school with Harry, in the same year. Harry wrote this down. The name niggled something in Harry’s head. 

The Wizarding World was obsessed with blood. Even with people conscientiously  _ not making an issue  _ out of blood status after the War, who your family was mattered. Family. He wrote the word down and circled it. 

The houses though…. Those had all been members of the Twenty Eight. What did anyone gain by burning down a house? 

A Healer approached him. “Master Potter, I’m terribly sorry, but visiting hours are coming to a close. And as you are not yet a full Auror-” 

“What? Oh, yeah. Of course.” Harry shoved his notebook and pen back into his pocket. “How is Mrs. Goyle?”   
  
“The patient is resting. You may see her tomorrow.” The Healer hadn’t moved. Harry’s eyes narrowed. 

“No,” he said slowly. “As her Auror-designated escort I am going to check in on her once more, before I leave. Or I am going to come back with my superiors, who are going to ask questions. Such as, where is your badge, Healer….?”

“Brown.” 

Ah. 

“I am going to check on the patient. And I am sorry for your loss. Lavender was a friend of mine.” Harry said firmly, and pushed past Healer Brown. 

He walked down the hall, and broke into a sprint when he saw her door already open. There was only one occupied bed. Blood drenched the sheets on either side of the still form. Harry approached the bed, slowly. Mrs. Goyle was staring, lifeless, at the ceiling. Her hands were… they weren’t hands. Flesh had bubbled off, as though burnt, and only skeletal claws remained. Her mouth was open in a grotesque twist of agony. 

Harry pulled out his wand, and thought quickly of Mrs. Weasley’s firm hug goodbye at last week’s Sunday breakfast. 

“ _ Expecto Patronum! _ Quick, run to Auror Michaels and tell him to come here  _ immediately _ , Mrs. Goyle is dead. Go!” The glowing stag sped down the hallway and through a wall. Harry, not knowing what else to do, sealed the scene as best he could, throwing up wards along all four walls of the room, the ceiling, and the floor. No one was getting in until Harry said so. And then he stood in front of the door, wand arm ready to snap into action as soon as he needed it. His trainee badge glinted on the front of his robes and he felt slightly foolish, but… 

Shit. 

Brown. And there wasn’t time to go after him. 

Another Healer in lime green robes bustled over to Harry. There was red, heart shaped tinsel in her hair. “Young man, what exactly do you think you are doing? This is a hospital!”

“Ma’am, right now it is also a murder scene.” Harry said grimly. “Aurors are on their way.” 

“A murder? Here? Don’t be preposterous young man.” she sniffed, and Harry fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Why in Merlin’s names have you put up wards?”

“Standard procedure, ma’am. If you’d like to help I’ll need to speak to the Head Healer of this Department.”  _ Keep talking, keep talking, buy time for Auror Michaels to- _

“Potter!” Auror Michaels was striding down the hall, Auror Whittensworth close behind him. “What’s happened? Oh, Healer Davis, how unsurprising to see you. Please stop trying to contaminate my crime scene.” 

The woman, Healer Davis, sniffed. “I am a woman of  _ medicine _ , Auror Michaels, we do not contaminate!” 

“And a hundred years ago you didn’t wash your hands either. Out.” Michaels commanded, and the woman flounced off. Michaels turned to Harry. “Quick thinking Potter. What happened here?”    
  
“Well, sir,” Harry said, “After I left Mrs. Goyle here with her healers-”

“Their names?” Michaels interrupted. Harry dug his notebook out. 

“Smith and, uh, Weston. I’m told they get paired together often, sir, it makes the Muggleborn patients laugh.”   
  
A wry smile quirked Auror Michaels’ thin lips. “So it does. Continue please, Potter. I want your account before I see the body.”

“Yes sir. I was told to wait in the adjourning corridor. No one went in or out but Healers, sir.”   
  
Auror Michaels sighed. “You did your job well, Potter. These things happen, and maybe I should have expected this.”

Harry shook his head. “All due respect sir… I don’t think anyone could have expected this.” 

He took down the main ward he had put up over the door, and Aurors Michaels and Whittensworth went inside, Harry close behind there. Auror Whittensworth gasped, and Auror Michaels let out a low “Sweet Merlin…” 

“I found her just like this, sir. Nothing has been touched.” Harry said, nervous. Auror Michaels nodded. 

“Clarissa, we’re going to need the tech team here, now. This isn’t just some letters anymore. Potter, did you see  _ anything _ unusual?” 

Auror Michaels was a tall man, with none of the gangliness of Mr. Weasley. He had dark hair, piercing blue eyes, and he radiated competence and power. He towered over Harry, but rather than being intimidated, Harry felt, well. Sure. 

“Yes, sir. A Healer tried to get me to leave without first checking on Mrs. Goyle. He had no badge on, but said his name was Brown. Roughly six foot, brown hair, brown eyes. Caucasian.” 

“Clarissa, I want you to run the name. And I want a bulletin out, might be a fake name. There was a Brown at Hogwarts, Lavender, right? Same age as Harry here and the Goyle boy.” 

“Yes, sir.” Harry confirmed. His mind was spinning. 

“Blast. There might be something to your theory that the letters and the arsons are connected. What in the-” 

A silver cat sailed through the open doorway. It opened its mouth, and a voice Harry didn’t recognise said, “Michaels, it’s Hillard. Rosier Park is on fire, we’ve got a squad on it, but you need to see this.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading the first chapter. Second should be up soon


End file.
